


Broken butterfly

by Sweetdeath (CherieCherrybomb)



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Bullying, Gen, Orphanage, Orphans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:07:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherieCherrybomb/pseuds/Sweetdeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cain and Deimos at the orphanage.<br/>---</p><p> </p><p>Just kind of a rough draft of an idea I have. There may be more chapters added if I get to it. My head is swimming with Starfighter ideas at the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken butterfly

"That boy never speaks to anyone," the older woman sighed. "At this rate, no one is going to have him. He's broken."

"That's a horrible thing to say, Marica."

\---

Mikhail leaned against the building's west wall, smoking a black cigarette. He glanced over at the sun winking at him from behind the trees. Exhaling, he kicked off the wall just as he heard some ruckus nearby. Tucking a long strand of dark hair behind his ear, he adjusted his scarf and headed over to a group of kids.

They were kicking another boy on the ground. He recognized him immediately. It was the pale, dark hair, blue eyed blue boy who never spoke. There were rumors about him being mute. He barely made a sound, even as one of the taller kids ground his boot against his cheek. Mikhail shrugged at first, moving to turn away, "Not my problem.. Not my business." Yet something made him stay there a watch. The blue eyes opened just enough to catch Mikhail's. He mouthed something to the younger boy, making him tighten his lips. 

"That's enough." He decided to push through the small crowd. "You've proved your point. "He's weak. He's mute. He can't defend himself," Mikhail continued, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot. "This kid is... pointless. So just leave 'em alone." 

Then he cursed in Russian, making the eldest kid of the group growl. "You want a piece of me instead?"

Mikhail smirked, cracking his knuckles. "I don't want to fight someone so beneath me. I'm not like you. I pick my equals, so it's fair." 

Misha couldn't see much of the fight. He kept his head down, but focused intensely on Mikhail. His moves were shift, but powerful. He kept his feet grounded, and used his arms as both offense and defense. Before long, the leader of the group was nursing a bloodied nose, and bruising cheek and eye. He ran off with his group, spitting at Misha before he departed.

Misha sniffled, but said nothing, sitting up to wipe at his mouth. His lip was bruised, a bit swollen. Mikhail offered a hand to the boy, watching him. "Stand up..."

Misha inhaled, taking his hand to help himself to his feet. He bit his lower lip, keeping his gaze downward. Mikhail was exceptionally attractive. He had hair so black, it was almost blue, brown eyes that shined hazel in the sinking sun. His skin was dark, sun kissed.

He was practically the exact opposite from himself, aside from the dark hair. He wanted to thank the other boy, but couldn’t gather the courage to speak. He made a faint sound, parting his lips in an attempt to speak.

Mikhail shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I just felt like kicking that guy’s ass. He really annoyed me. Maybe you shouldn’t be so weak though? Can’t you speak up for yourself at all?”  
Misha shook his head, suddenly embarrassed after responding in such a way. His voice was meek, raspy, “I…” he attempted to speak.

“What’s your name? I’m Mikhail.” The sun kissed boy grinned.

“…M….Misha.” 

Mikhail studied the boy. He was smaller than him by quite a bit. His frame was naturally petite, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least put up a fight. “Here…” Mikhail began, fishing around in his inner coat pocket for something. He gestured for the boy to put his hands out. Something cool and obviously made of metal was placed across his palms.

When Misha looked down, it was a narrow butterfly knife. He looked at Mikhail with a puzzled expression, not sure what the gesture meant entirely.

“Become stronger.” Was all he said, turning with a coy smirk and heading off back towards the orphanage.

Misha clenched the knife tightly in both hands as he watched Mikhail disappear into the dingy two story house. He closed his eyes, the scent of the other boy’s lingering.


End file.
